


crossing the line

by tooruluvr



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Minor Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Mutual Pining, Seijoh Week 2020, Smoking, except issei is a coward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26112547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tooruluvr/pseuds/tooruluvr
Summary: Gaze still on the moon, Hanamaki asks: “What are we?”Issei’s eyes shift to look at him. He takes a breath that seems to rattle in his chest — he’s unsure whether it’s the smoke or the moon’s gentle glow on Hanamaki’s cheeks.“...What could be,” Issei murmurs, watching the curls of smoke disappear into the night. “If you want to.”Seijoh Week 2020, Day 4: Mafia AU
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei
Comments: 17
Kudos: 175
Collections: Seijoh Week 2020





	crossing the line

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Loyalty of a Traitor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12429639) by [DeathBelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathBelle/pseuds/DeathBelle). 



> [niina's](https://twitter.com/NiinaLovesMoon) [lovely art of matsukawa](https://twitter.com/NiinaLovesMoon/status/1275711209854156801?s=20) first sparked this idea in my head! thank you for rambling with me about this boy, i truly can't get enough of him. here's a yearning matsu for you, i hope you enjoy!
> 
> p.s. please imagine matsu with black eyeliner throughout this fic. i couldn’t fit that in but — yeah. thank me later.

“W-Wait, I didn’t—I wasn’t the one who did it! You’ve got the wrong guy, I-I was tricked!”

Issei huffs out a sigh, eyes settling in a bored look at the trembling figure in his hold. Perhaps, a long time ago, he would have taken pity on this man — he was about to leave him in the hands of the most dangerous men in Tokyo, after all — but years and years of yakuza work have left him apathetic, detached. Empty pleas and flimsy promises mean nothing to him; not anymore. And when prolonged, they aggravate him, on rare occasions earning his victim a punch to the mouth, just to shut them up a little bit.

But right now, Issei is calm enough to remember that Oikawa doesn’t like things done without his permission.

“Shut up,” he grumbles instead, yanking him forward. “Don’t feign innocence. You know what happens when you betray the boss. You don’t have an excuse.”

The man whimpers, but says nothing. Behind them, Hanamaki stands guard in Issei’s place, sparing a glance back every minute or so. Issei doesn’t need to meet his eyes to imagine the sympathy in them; the drag to the boss’s office is always tiresome.

Issei raps on the door, then punches in the code on the keypad when he’s given permission to enter. The door swings open and he all but shoves the man in, keen on getting his ordeal over with.

Leaning back leisurely in his seat, ankles crossed as though he were simply waiting for his order of coffee, sits the head of Tokyo’s infamous Seijoh syndicate himself, Oikawa Tooru. The overhead lights are rather dim today, washing the cherry red of his desk a dark, crimson colour more reminiscent of spilled blood. 

It’s rather fitting, Issei thinks darkly.

Behind Oikawa, arms crossed with his signature leather jacket hanging over the shoulders, stands Iwaizumi, the glare in his eyes so impressive it could serve as punishment alone. He eyes the quivering man like he’s caused him great offence — which, well, he might as well have. To disrespect Oikawa is to disrespect Iwaizumi, and to incur the wrath of the both of them is to bring upon yourself a painful death sentence.

Upon recognising the man, Oikawa smiles.

“Ah, yes,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “I was wondering what was taking you so long, Mattsun.”

Issei shrugs, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe, “Sorry, boss. Someone was being difficult.”

From the end of the room, Iwaizumi clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Figures. It’s the difficult ones I can’t stand.”

“Aw, don’t say that, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa’s eyes shift to the man on the floor, and the look in his eyes shifts from triumphant to _ravenous_. Even Issei finds himself straightening his posture a little bit. “After all, it’s the difficult ones that are the most fun.”

“Please!” The man bursts out, eyes wide with panic. “I didn’t know, if I had—” 

“Yes, yes, I’m _sure_ you had absolutely nothing to do with it,” Oikawa interrupts in a lazy drawl, resting his chin on his hand. “Your mouth simply moved of its own volition and tried to rat out one of my men to the cops.” He leans forward, lips stretching into a carnivorous smile. “You weren’t so naive as to think it would be _easy_ , did you?”

To that, the man says nothing, hanging his head low, and Issei decides he’s had enough of his pathetic show for the night. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Issei nods, and Oikawa gestures his confirmation.

“Oh, and, Mattsun?”

Issei pauses. “Yeah, boss?”

Iwaizumi tosses his jacket to the side, walking up to the man and seizing him by the collar. Oikawa grins in anticipation.

“If anyone needs us, we’ll be busy for a while.”

Issei dips his head and his ears catch the beginnings of a scream before he shuts the door behind him with a swing of his foot.

━━━━━━━━━━

  
  
  


“Done for the night?”

Issei finds Hanamaki waiting for him at the entrance. He looks up from where he’s seated on the pavement, legs crossed and a cigarette dangling from his lips. Issei hums in response and settles next to him.

“Boss said not to disturb him.”

Hanamaki scoffs. “Don’t know anyone stupid enough to. Hey, you got a lighter?”

It starts like this; as their nights often do. Hanamaki asks for a lighter, because he never seems to have one on him, and leans in when Issei offers it, letting him light the stick himself. 

But Issei isn’t gullible — he knows Hanamaki always has his lighter with him. He’s long come to the conclusion that he simply prefers Issei’s.

And Issei doesn’t mind.

He’s slipped out his own cigarette and lit it when the thought strikes him. Hanamaki leans in expectantly, but Issei pockets the lighter instead, smiling at the affronted look thrown at him.

“Rude.” Hanamaki says.

“Have a little more faith in me, ‘Hiro,” Issei teases. He takes a drag, then exhales, watching the smoke curl into the night sky. He then turns to Hanamaki, leaning forward slightly and suppressing a smile when he blinks in surprise.

“C’mere,” Issei mumbles around his cigarette. Hanamaki takes a moment to stare at him before complying, moving forward to touch the tip of his cigarette to Issei’s. Issei’s hands seem to move of their own accord, cupping Hanamaki’s cheeks and keeping the two of them rooted in the moment, their eyes locked intensely.

Hanamaki’s surprise dusts his cheeks a soft pink that almost complements his hair — still, he doesn’t pull back. Temptation wins Issei over and he brushes his thumb over the skin; it’s just the ghost of a touch, hesitant and shaky, but Hanamaki leans into it, might have fallen into Issei’s arms, even, if it weren’t for their lit cigarettes. 

Issei pulls away just slightly, then all at once, and the moment crumbles between his fingers. Hanamaki blinks in confusion for a few seconds, then puts his back to the wall and takes a long drag.

And it’s like nothing happened at all.

Issei isn’t stupid — he knows what he’s just done has crossed the line of their odd “friendship” by miles.

But it wouldn’t be the first time.

When Issei had gotten himself injured chasing after a trespasser and Hanamaki had held him in his arms, they’d crossed the line.

When Issei had shielded Hanamaki with his body when bullets were fired after a deal gone wrong, they’d crossed the line.

When they’d both drank themselves to oblivion and found their lips on each other’s by the end of the night, they had _definitely_ crossed the line.

It seems to be all they do now. Issei doubts a line between them has a reason to exist anymore, other than to soothe their own fears that there remains a _limit_ between them — when there is not.

“Did I light it properly?” Issei asks after a stretch of silence, his voice husky from the smoke.

“You always do,” Hanamaki answers, eyes drawn to the moon. Issei follows his gaze. She looks down on them mournfully, casts her stolen light on them as though in pity. 

_‘A breath away sits everything you have ever wanted,’_ she seems to say. _‘And still.’_

Still.

Hanamaki’s fingers tap a silent rhythm on the ground, and Issei aches to reach for them. That would be crossing another line, wouldn’t it? That would be another uncertainty, wouldn’t it?

Issei doesn’t have to mull over it too much, because this time, Hanamaki crosses the line for him, reaching for his hand and grasping it in his own like he needs it, like it anchors him. Issei starts at the warmth of his fingers against his own cold ones.

Gaze still on the moon, Hanamaki asks: “What are we?”

Issei’s eyes shift to look at him. He takes a breath that seems to rattle in his chest — he’s unsure whether it’s the smoke or the moon’s gentle glow on Hanamaki’s cheeks.

“...What could be,” Issei murmurs, watching the curls of smoke disappear into the night. “If you want to.”

“What about you?” Hanamaki says, eyes shifting to him and holding him in place. “Do you want to?”

The smile that draws itself on Issei’s face is that of a fool’s, that of a man far too deep in the clutches of his own desires.

“‘Hiro…” he sighs, fond. “I always have.”

And then, it’s Hanamaki’s arm reaching for the cigarette between Issei’s lips, Hanamaki’s fingers plucking it from his mouth, Hanamaki discarding his own, too.

Him who draws Issei closer, him whose fingers dig deep into Issei’s dark curls, him who, in that moment when everything collides, has all of Issei at his mercy.

Him, him, him — _Takahiro._

Another line crossed.

Everything he has ever wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> oh issei <3 i want to bonk u on the head <3


End file.
